


Of tea and toast and other things

by NairobiWonders



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Joanlock - Freeform, Mention of Andrew, OC death, Platonic Joanlock - Freeform, not graphic, tea and toast
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-02
Updated: 2017-09-02
Packaged: 2018-12-23 01:29:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11979240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NairobiWonders/pseuds/NairobiWonders
Summary: This started with re-reading the "Wind in the Willows" and tumbled through the reeds in a completely unexpected direction.PS: It has very little to do with Wind in the Willows and more to do with facing painful emotion.





	Of tea and toast and other things

Curled at one end of the sofa, feet tucked in beneath her, Joan sat reading. Sherlock, near the sofa's other end, sat absorbed in reading of his own. The silence, broken intermittently by the crackle of the fire and the creak of the house, was amiable and wholly needed after the intensity of their day.

Joan lifted her eyes from the book and cast a sidelong glance at him. Whatever he was reading had his full attention. She returned to her book and marked her spot with the aqua ribbon, a cherished remnant of the Christmas gift her father had presented her one muggy July day. She tugged her red cardigan a little closer around her and peeked from beneath lashes at Sherlock. Taking a small breath, she moved her legs out from under her and resettled herself an inch or so closer to him. 

"You cold?' He asked without looking up from his journal. 

"No, no, I'm fine ..." she watched him for a second or two longer before speaking. "Would you read this for me?" She opened the book and pointed to the paragraph. He eyed her suspiciously, but set aside his journal and took the proffered book. 

Joan leaned in a little closer. "Out loud?" She asked with a small wistful smile.

Sherlock knew how large of a toll the day had taken upon her. Gladly, he would perform any duty, fulfill any request, if it distracted her or brought her momentary relief; still, though, he made a show of it, for the sake of appearances. Sighing and taking his time, he stared at the book, reached down to the floor and retrieved his mug and taking a sip, grimaced at the now tepid tea, before clearing his throat and reading:

_"When the girl returned, some hours later, she carried a tray, with a cup of fragrant tea steaming on it; and a plate piled up with very hot buttered toast, cut thick, very brown on both sides, with the butter running through the holes in it in great golden drops, like honey from the honeycomb. The smell of that buttered toast simply talked to Toad; and with no uncertain voice; talked of warm kitchens, of breakfasts on bright frosty mornings, of cosy parlour firesides on winter evenings, when one’s ramble was over, and slippered feet were propped on the fender; of the purring of contented cats, and the twitter of sleepy canaries...."_

He finished the passage and confused, sat back into the extra pillows they'd placed on the sofa, "Is this your way of asking for buttered toast?"

"No ... I ... " She had chosen to re-read "The Wind in the Willows" tonight in effort to dispel the horrors of the day. That paragraph in particular, of tea and toast and the safe harbor of home, was just what she needed. "... I just wanted to hear it read out loud." Joan was loathe to let him know just how very comforting she found his voice intoning the familiar text.

He squinted an eye at her and nodded, "Ah... I see. It is the proper British pronunciation that you wished to hear..." his hand flittered languidly before him. "Much more pleasing to the ear than the crude American drawl...." He curled his lip and grimaced for comedic emphasis. She'd taken today's events harder than he had; he'd determined that a smile from her was necessary for her, and for his, well-being. 

She couldn't help but be amused. "Shut up and read a little more ... please?" 

And he did. 

Sherlock reached the end of the chapter and stopped. Staring straight ahead, shoulder to shoulder on the sofa, the usual distance of personal space being temporarily disregarded, a quiet settled between them.

"You're thinking about her?" He whispered. 

She didn't answer; she didn't need to.

"We did the best we could, Watson. We stopped a madman from doing any further harm."

A big dollop of a tear escaped her eye and his heart wrenched. "You are not responsible for the young woman's death, you understand that, yes?"

Joan nodded silently, not looking at him; she swiped her face trying to erase the track of the tear. 

His hand moved from the book on his lap and hovered over hers as if waiting for permission. Sherlock braved the possibility of her recoil and covered her hand with his. The shock of touch, of skin on skin, reverberated through both of them but quickly melted with the soft warmth it provided. He slowly curled his fingers, threading them between hers and she held on tightly, adjusting her hand to cradle within his. Wordlessly they watched the fire sputter and took comfort. 

Sherlock broke the silence. "I had a nanny who referred to me as Mr. Toad." He looked at Joan. "She didn't last very long."

Joan watched him. "Hmm.... I don't know .... I think you're more of a Ratty than a Mr. Toad."

"So says the Mole." He dipped his head and after a second of consideration announced, "We need more tea. And toast, buttered toast!" He bounced their hands in emphasis. "Come Watson," Sherlock stood and pulled at her to follow. "To the kitchen!"

 

The only evidence of their repast consisted of a few crumbs, a droplet or two of melted butter, and the golden smear of sticky honey on their plates. With the last of the tea cooling in their mugs, they sat in silence. He knew better than to ask about her feelings; that was not Watson's way. It would come in dribs and drabs in its own time. 

Sherlock played with the handle of his mug, pushing it back and forth between his fingers. He took a sidelong glance at her, eyes cast down, her shoulders curving into herself, she seemed to want to disappear. 

"May I sleep with you tonight?" The words were spoken quickly and directed at the mug. His heart raced and her silence forced him to look up at her.

Joan's face revealed a certain sadness, a tender yet conflicted state as she began to speak. "Sherlock ... I'm not sure it's wise to rush into ... something tonight ... when we are feeling vulnerable ...."

"Watson, I..." he tried to interrupt.

"I think if we wait ... I'm not saying no ... but ..."

"Watson," he interrupted her again. "I am not requesting sex. Not even I am that insensitive of a brute. I thought we could sleep ... share a bed ... for the sake of ... well, of keeping close when circumstances have left us feeling .... rather alone."

Joan stared at him, finding no words to express her feelings. She reached her hand to his and stopped his fidgeting with his cup. He looked up at her, fear at the possibility of her rejection, shone in his eyes.

She nodded yes, a thin curve graced her lips. "My room ... and just sleep."

"Just sleep." He repeated. They said nothing more. 

 

He showed up at the doorway to her bedroom, dressed in sweatpants and a tshirt, just as she was turning down the bed. She wore her big oversized grey flannel pjs. 

"Oooh sexy!" Sherlock teased. 

She stopped him with a look that left no room for misinterpretation. 

"Sorry. Just trying to lighten the mood ....."

Getting into bed and under the covers proved awkward, leaving them feeling like strangers rather than best friends. After endless adjustments and contortions to prevent touching, they laid side by side, wide-eyed, staring at the ceiling. 

"Did you bring up your phone?"

"Mmhmm," he answered. 

"Good." 

A long silence followed until she spoke once more. "I'm sorry about all this. I'm acting foolishly. If you want to go ..."

"You ..." he chose his words carefully, " ... are strong and resilient, amazingly so. But everyone has a breaking point. .... I'd rather stay ... we can talk about what happened or not. Whatever you choose .... 

She sighed, and smoothed the sheet that covered her. "Talking won't help .... it won't change the way I feel. ..... Won't get rid of the smell of carnations ... the smell was so strong I could almost taste them." Overwhelmed with the memory, she paused. He said nothing. He waited. 

"The shot ... " Joan covered her eyes with her hand and exhaled. "Marcus and I got to the flower market ... I saw her and called her name. And then the shot .... she fell back into the stall ... into the flowers... the carnations. .... Marcus and the others went after the shooter ... I stayed with her. She was barely holding on ...the look on her face, the look of disbelief that this was happening reminded me of ...." her voice faded. 

"I should have gone with you ..."

"You had your own mess to clean up... its fine ... I'll be okay. ..."

"It's not fine. None of it." Sherlock rotated on his side to face her. "Watson. Look at me."

Joan wiped her eyes before hesitantly turning to face him.

"I once told you that you and I were bound to each other and I meant it. We shoulder our burdens together ... " He wiped a tear from her face. "Together, hmm?"

She stared at him blinking back further tears.

"It reminded you of Andrew?" he whispered. 

"Yes." A muffled gasp followed her admission, jarring loose a torrent of emotion. Her face contorted in pain, Joan reached out for him and he guided her into his arms. Sobbing, she burrowed her head in his neck. Sherlock's surprise at the explosion of emotion quickly passed and he moved to soothe her. His hand cradled her head, holding her close to him, caressing as he murmured encouragements and endearments. 

The pain lessened, and the crying dwindled to occasional shudders, yet they held on. 

Joan found her voice, shaky with pain and embarrassment, "Don't go ...."

"My dear Watson, I have no intention of ever letting go..." he whispered into her hair. Grateful she could not see the tears in his eyes, he laid his head on top of hers and held her tightly to him.

Drained, physically and emotionally, Joan succumbed to sleep and Sherlock followed.

**Author's Note:**

> Quotation from Chapter 8, Wind in the Willows, by Kenneth Grahame


End file.
